


i wondered if i could come home

by frankie_31



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Age Progression, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Benjamin Button (Kind Of), Depression, Gay Richie Tozier, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:40:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24297502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_31/pseuds/frankie_31
Summary: Richie is spiraling deeper and deeper into the chasm of grief. Life feels endless and pointless. Then, Eddie comes back.Kind of.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 82





	1. Chapter 1

He wakes up because there’s a weird sound in his room. 

A funny, hitching breath in the corner of his bedroom. Richie’s first thought is  _ It _ ? And then, after he sits up and dislodges the whiskey bottle he’d had tucked under his arm, he realizes it’s a kid. 

“Whahthuhfug,” he slurs, sitting up all the way and squinting into the dark. His glasses are smudged from sleeping in them but he can tell there’s a child in his bedroom. His head swings with alcohol and he fights the urge to hurl. 

“I-I-I know what this is,” a high, tight voice says. “I know you’re going to molest me and steal my fucking liver to sell it on the black market and skin me into a fucking suitcase, you fucking fuck—“

“Eddie?” Richie gasps, drowning on dry land. He scrambles to his knees, legs tangling in the sheets. The whiskey bottle tips over the edge of the mattress and crashes onto the hardwood floor. 

“Don’t come any closer or I’ll—I’ll bite you and then piss myself and—Who  _ are  _ you?” Eddie screams like a girl and flings whatever he’s holding at Richie. 

A lamp, Richie realizes when it’s collided with his sternum. He lets out a pained noise and clutches the lamp. 

“Are you real?” Richie asks, holding the lamp like it’s a swaddled baby. “Is it you? Did I choke on my own vomit and finally kick it, Eds?”

_ “Don’t  _ call me that,” Eddie screeches. Richie watches him fumble on the side table and then Bill’s new book is flying through the air and catching Richie’s in the eye. 

“Mother _ fuck _ ,” Richie hisses, drooping the lamp. “Eddie, I gotta tell you—this is the worst heaven I can imagine. Who do I complain to? Is this hell?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Eddie says, eyes wide and white in the dark. “I’m going to rip your fucking trachea out with my teeth!”

“It’s me,” Richie says, holding his arms out in case Eddie means it. “It’s Richie.”

“You’re insane,” Eddie hisses. “You are a greasy, old fuck and you are  _ not  _ Richie. You’re a crazy  _ freak _ and I’m going call my mom and the police and kill you.”

“That’s a fucking— Shut up. You’re in the future, numb nuts,” Richie says. His voice betrays him, cracking and weak. “This dream blows, FYI. I’m Richie from 2018 and you’re Eddie from 1980-whatever. Get with the fucking program.”

“Prove it,” Eddie says, plastered against the wall like a jumping spider. 

“Every time you got a stomach ache your mom made you get in the bathtub and she gave you a—,” Richie starts and Eddie makes an angry, wordless noise at him. “ _ So _ you didn’t tell her when your appendix burst and you almost got sepsis.” 

There’s a moment of terrible stillness where Eddie is watching him with those big, glossy eyes and Richie wants to puke in his own lap to release some of his anxiety. Then, the frigid moment breaks. 

“Richie?” Eddie says softly. He peels himself off the wall. “Why are you old? You look fucking awful.” 

“Yeah, I’m glad to see you too,” Richie says, aiming for joking but then his voice wavers and gives out and he starts sobbing. 

He cries so hard he feels like someone took a cheese grater to his throat and his ribs hurt. At some point, he comes back into his body and there’s a little hand rubbing between his shoulder blades. 

“—it’s okay, Richie. Oh my god, I’m freaking the fuck out but it’s going to be okay,” Eddie is saying, firmly rubbing Richie’s back like he’s trying to revive a sickly kitten. 

“Sorry,” Richie says, sucking snot up miserably. He rubs his t-shirt over his face, feeling like a hulking monster compared to this tiny Eddie. He rubs his glasses uselessly on his shirt and then crams them onto his face. “Jesus. How old are you?”

“Fourteen,” Eddie says, sitting back on his heels. He’s fawn-like as a teen, doe-eyed and impossibly fragile. “How old are you?”

“Forty-one,” Richie says and Eddie wrinkles his little nose. 

“You’re ancient,” Eddie says. “You’re older than your mom is.”

“She’s like seventy now, dipshit,” Richie says. “Christ. I gotta tell the others.”

“The Losers?” Eddie asks, perking up. “Oh, my god. Are they all old? I’m old! I want to see me—Well. Unless you think it would fuck with the space-time continuum.”

“Hold on,” Richie says instead of having a panic attack and he leans over to grab his phone off the table.

He calls Bev first on FaceTime. Eddie leans over his shoulder to peer at the phone, smelling like antiseptic and Right Guard deodorant. Richie wants to press his face into Eddie’s armpit. Eddie smells like the best parts of his youth and the last time he was happy. 

“Richie,” Bev says, voice gentle. She’s been  _ gentle _ for months. 

“Hot shit! Beverly, you grew up so foxy,” Eddie chirps, pressing his face closer to the phone. 

“Richie?” Bev asks, voice shuttered. “What’s happening?”

“You see him too?” Richie asks, tears prickling his eyes again. “You see Eddie?”

“Ben,” she says weakly, dropping the phone. Then, louder, “Ben!”

“I’m missing something,” Eddie says. “She’s sad. Why is she sad? What is happening?”

“You’re fucking dead,” Richie blurts as Ben picks up the phone. “Dead and gone, Eddie.”

“Richie,” Bev yelps but Richie can only see Ben’s creased, hurt face. “What is wrong with you?”

“I’m dead?” Eddie asks, voice pitched up. In the little screen his face is drawn. Richie can’t look at him in real life. “I’m a fucking ghost?”

“You threw a lamp at me, Eddie,” Richie says. “Ghosts can’t throw lamps.”

“How would you  _ know? _ ” Eddie asks. His voice creeps up in octaves until he’s essentially screaming. Richie looks at him finally. “How would you know what ghosts can do?”

“Ghosts can go through walls! They can’t hold lamps, Eddie,” Richie snaps and Eddie punches him in the jaw. He pulls the punch so really he just shoves Richie’s head with his fist. 

“Boys,” Bev says, voice hard like it had been the few times they’d got into a tussle in the club house. “Please. Eddie, what do you remember before you were here?”

“Oh—It’s weird,” Eddie says, anger melting to a lost look that makes Richie want to vomit. His eyes drift from Richie’s face. “It’s like looking through an old glass window. The kind that’s wavy and wrinkly. There was a big... A turtle. And space. We were in outer space.”

“A turtle?” Bev asks. In the phone, she presses her fist to her mouth and blinks. 

“And he loved me,” Eddie says, choking on sudden tears. “He loved me as big as the universe. He loved me so much.”

“Then what?” Ben asks, pressing his face beside Bev’s. 

“Then... I was here,” Eddie says, sniffling. “In Richie’s disgusting bedroom. It smells like the locker room, Ben. There are at least ten cups full of mold on the bedside table.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Richie says, crying again. “Spaghetti, I think I’m dreaming.”

“You’re not,” Eddie says firmly. “But if this is purgatory for me I’m going to burn your house down.” 

“You were baptized,” Richie says. “You’re not in purgatory.”

“Okay, I booked a flight,” Bev says, and they snap their attention back to her. “Ben and I will be there tomorrow. The turtle—he helped me too. He showed me—I’ll tell you when I see you. I love you, Eddie.”

“Oh, uh. I l-love you too—Wait! That’s Ben? Holy shit, Ben! You’re like a muscle man now,” Eddie yells, pulling the phone closer to his face. He whistles loudly. “Wait! Are you guys—Oh my god! Are you guys, like, in love?”

“Yeah,” Richie jeers, crowding in closer. “Are you, like, in love?”

“Well, yeah,” Ben says, smiling down at them. “Crazy in love.”

“Woah,” Eddie says softly. “That’s fucking crazy.”

“It kind of is,” Bev says. She looks at Eddie for a long moment, face soft. “Okay. Call the others. Call Bill and Mike.”

“Fuck,” Richie says and the tears that just subsidized start up again. He cannot explain Stan to Eddie. “You have to call them.”

“Wha—Oh,” Bev says. Her face pinches. “I’ll call.”

“Wait, no,” Eddie protests. “I want to see grown up Rabbi Stan. He’s a rabbi, right? Like his dad?”

“No, he chose a different path,” Ben says. He leans his head on Bev’s, using her for strength. “We will see you tomorrow. I’m sure the other Losers will gather soon too.”

“Bye,” Richie says, hanging up as fast as he can. 

“What the fuck?” Eddie says, too loud and too close. “I want to talk to the others.”

“You can,” Richie says, bone tired. “Tomorrow.”

“That’s not fucking fair,” Eddie says, clambering off the bed. He crosses his skinny little arms. His hair is longer than Richie though it had been, curling against his nape. “Where are we?” 

“Los Angeles,” Richie says. He scrubs his fingers through his own greasy, tangled hair and winces. 

“When was the last time you showered? You’re going to get trench-foot from your disgusting socks and get your fucking feet amputated. Oh my god, you’re so old,” Eddie says, folding his hands to his chest like a little grandma. “Richie, I’m going to have an asthma attack.”

“You don’t have asthma,” Richie groans, clambering off the bed. He slaps his foot down on a slate of broken whiskey bottle and yanks his foot back up. “Fuck my life.”

“What?” Eddie asks, jittering around the bed and stopping when he sees the glass. “Is that alcohol?”

“What?” Richie asks, annoyed. He pulls his foot up onto his other knee, hip protesting. There’s a shard of glass puncturing his white-gone-grey sock. The blood blooms in the soft, fleshy middle of his foot. The sensitive arch. He pinches the glass carefully but stops when Eddie yelps. 

“You can’t just yank it out, stupid,” Eddie says, scrambling up on the bed. He digs in his fanny pack, finding a little squeeze bottle of rubbing alcohol, tweezers, a gauze pad and a little roll of tape. He smooths Richie’s duvet blanket out and lays his tools like a surgeon. “Let me see.”

Richie leaves his foot on his knee and leans back. Eddie bends forward immediately, bowing over the foot so all Richie can see is his hair curling against the neck of his striped polo and the birds’ wing fragile line of his shoulders. 

“Should I treat this with  _ A Christmas Carol _ rules? Eddie of Christmas Past, I fucking miss you,” Richie says. His voice is steady. “I miss you like a limb. Like an organ. You were supposed to stay inside me. Supposed to keep me going. Now I feel like—like my heart or my lung is gone. I miss you.” 

“I’m right here, fuck face,” Eddie says, peeling Richie’s sock off carefully. He rolls it down until he reaches the glass and then, with steady hands, pulls it up and over the shard. Then he drops the sock on the floor. “You probably need stitches.” 

“I’m not going to get stitches,” Richie says. He ignores Eddie’s squawk of indignation. “What would I do with you if I went to the hospital?”

“Your wound is getting blood all over the floor. Is that alcohol? Were you sleeping with a whiskey bottle? Are you drunk? You were on your back—That’s how you die, Richie. You throw the fuck up and then aspirate in your—,” Eddie starts frantically, still leaning over the foot. He’s trembling. Richie puts a hand on his back, agonized by the breadth of his hand over Eddie’s shoulder blades. Like a switch being flipped, Eddie says dully, “I’m dead.” 

“As a door nail,” Richie agrees. He moves his hand, methodically rubbing from shoulder blade to blade.

“It’s doorknob, you fucking moron,” Eddie spits. He grabs his tweezers. “Not door nail. What the fuck is a door nail?”

“It’s a—Fuck! You vicious little shit!” Richie snaps. Eddie holds the glass up victoriously. 

“You’ll have to put a bag on your foot,” Eddie says, dropping the glass like a Plinko ball. 

“A bag? What?”

“For the shower. If your bedroom is any indication, your shower is probably a fucking cesspool,” Eddie says, frowning back at Eddie. His eyes are damp and huge. “You can’t rub your open wound on shower bacteria.”

“Rub my—God, that’s particularly nasty,” Richie says. He is very drunk. “I don’t think I have soap.”

“Y-you don’t—! What is wrong with you?” Eddie sputters. “You’re forty!”

“What isn’t wrong with me?” Richie asks bitterly. “How much time do you have? I’m a pathetic, washed up comedian closet case fuck up. And that’s just my most pressing issue.”

Eddie perks up dramatically, like a deer seeing a puma, but stays silent. They watch each other for a moment and then Eddie sets back to his cleaning. He squirts rubbing alcohol on Richie’s foot and ignores his cursing. He pats the area around the wound dry and then, as he’s bandaging it, he peeks at Richie from the corner of his eye.

“Closet case?” He asks, voice cracking. 

“Ha,” Richie says. He splays back on the bed, arms out. “Ha ha ha.” 

The laughter turns manic and he’s practically screaming, flat on his back, stomach jumping. When he finally looks back at Eddie, he’s sitting up curled over his knees with a frown. 

“Yes,” Richie says, wiping tears from under his eyes. “I’m gay. Queer as a three dollar bill, young Eds.” 

“Fuck off,” Eddie snaps. “Was I?”

“Were you gay?” Richie asks, leaning up on his elbows. “You don’t know?”

“The me from  _ here _ . From this time. Was he gay?” Eddie asks fiercely, clutching his knees tighter. “Was he— Were you mine?”

Richie flops back down and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. 

“No,” he says. He wants to die. “I wasn’t.”

“When did I die?” Eddie asks. “Was it—Is it soon? How old was I? Do I die in Derry?”

“You were forty when you died. And you didn’t live in Derry for a long time. But you went back to Derry to die,” Richie says, hands over his eyes. 

“I lived for—for twenty years after this?” Eddie asks, gesturing to himself. “And I didn’t have you? You were supposed to—I didn’t even let myself dream about it, Rich. But you’re… gay. And I’m—I’m  _ whatever _ —but we both—Fuck that!”

“Life’s a bitch, young Eddie,” Richie says miserably. He sits up and meets Eddie’s eyes. “You suffer and you die.”

“Jesus, Rich,” Eddie says. His hands twitch like he’s going to grab Richie but then he just wraps them tighter around himself. “Who even are you? You’re so—God. You’re so different.”

“The stupid fucking clown won,” Richie says. “It beat me and you and Stan—“

“What happened to Stan?” Eddie says, too loud. “Why can’t I call him?” Tears spring up and he lowers his chin stubbornly. “I want to call Stan.”

“I can’t do this,” Richie tells the wall ahead of himself. Eddie rocks once, visibly soothing himself. “Why me? I can’t handle this. I know there isn’t a fucking God because he wouldn’t let evil clowns eat kids for hundreds of years. He wouldn’t put the pubescent linchpin of my sanity in my bedroom a year after he died.” 

“Stop being a stupid asshole and tell me what happened to S-Stan,” Eddie says. His voice is rigid with held-back tears. “Tell me right now.”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Richie roars, turning on Eddie. Eddie blinks in surprise and a fat tear rolls down his cheek. “I don’t want to tell you that in twenty years your friend is going to—Fuck.”

“What did he do?” Eddie asks. He shifts to his knees and shoves Richie. “What did Stan do?”

“Ask Bev when she’s here tomorrow,” Richie says wearily. Eddie shoves him again, almost bowling him over, and Richie hurdles up and off the bed, avoiding the glass but not the spilled whiskey. “If you’re still here.”

It soaks his bandage, stinging his foot, and he feels like he deserves it. 

“What did he do?” Eddie asks again. He’s clutching the duvet with his head tilted down. His mop of curly hair spirals over his forehead. 

“He killed himself,” Richie says. The words feel silky in his mouth. Like a promise, like rich chocolate, the words coat his tongue.

“That’s fucking stupid,” Eddie says viciously. “And if you ever say it like that again I’m going to rip off your head and shit down your neck.”

“I won’t,” Richie says, nauseated by the act of being seen. “I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t really believe you,” Eddie says. He climbs off the bed, nosing the toe of his clean, white Converse through the shattered glass so he only has to step in it once. He stands before Richie, pale and tired and so fucking young. “You not my Richie. But you’re still a Richie. And I know what’s up in that psycho-funny-farm brain pan of yours.”

“Shut up,” Richie says and he sounds weak to his own ears. “You don’t know jack shit.”

“Do too,” Eddie says tiredly. If they were still kids, Eddie would have reached out and grabbed his arm now. Maybe shook him around. “I do.”

Then, Richie’s phone rings. 

He picks around the glass, happy for the intrusion and fetches his phone. 

Bill is in the middle of a sentence, stuttering and crying when Richie answers. 

“—she said he was back! It’s Ed-d-d-ddie—,” he yells. “Bev said he’s here and he’s not It.”

“Holy fuck, Bill,” Richie says, heart cracking. When this ghost leaves, it’s going to be worse than the first time. 

“Eddie?” Bill yells, too loud and too excited and nonsensical. “Bev said y-y-you had Eddie?”

Richie obediently turns his phone to capture Eddie standing in the doorway, small and skinny. 

“Is that Big Bill?” Eddie asks, charging towards the phone. “Big Bill? You look like a movie-star!”

“Wait until you see B-Ben,” Bill laughs. He’s crying and smiling and Richie can see spilled coffee on his chest. It paints a picture of a startled Bill. 

“I did see!” Eddie says, pulling the phone away from Bill. “What the fuck?”

“What the fuck?” Bill asks back and Richie can hear him smile. “You’re a shrimp!”

“I’m average!” Eddie yells happily, hunching over the camera. “Average!”

“Don’t worry, Sketti,” Richie says. Eddie looks at him, face melting from joyous indignation to complete focus. “Big Bill is the shortest of us all. Except Bevvy.”

“That’s the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Eddie says and he looks back down at the phone. “How tall are you?”

Richie leaves them to it. 

He needs a break. He goes into the bathroom and scrounges some little hotel shampoo bottles from under his sink. 

His shower  _ is  _ a cesspool. There’s black crud in every inch of grout and a wad of hair on the corner of the tub. It’s bone dry and smelly and there’s no bath mats on the ground because he tried to clean his bathroom in a fit of mania at four in the morning and left his mats in the washer so long that they grew soft, fuzzy green mold. 

He shakes a plastic shower cap from its little packet and sticks his foot in it. He ties a little knot as his ankle but it doesn’t seem particularly sturdy. 

The shower sputters into motion and he sits on the toilet seat for a moment, head in his hands. His eyes burn, swollen from crying and dehydration. His stomach rebels at all of this motion when it’s so very full of whiskey and he thinks bleakly of a glass of ice water. 

Finally, Herculeanly, momentously, he gets in the shower. The smell is worse when he adds water and he squirts some rose scented body wash onto the tub floor. It helps for less than thirty seconds. 

“Are you okay?” Eddie calls moments later. 

Richie is scratching shampoo through his hair. It’s the first time in a long time and he has tangles, fetid knots, at the base of his skull. 

“Did you wrap your foot? I’m coming in! Hide your dick!” Eddie announces loudly and the door slams open against the wall.

“Why would my dick be out? I’m behind a curtain,” Richie says. 

“I forgot you were like—Well, no. I didn’t forget I just wasn’t thinking. But you’re like a real grownup,” Eddie babbles and Richie hears him heft himself up onto the counter. “Did you wrap your foot?”

“Yeah,” Richie says. 

“Prove it,” Eddie says. Richie can hear him kicking his feet on the cabinet. “Are you lying? You’re going to get a disgusting infection in your foot and it’s going to turn gangrenous and you’ll lose it and have to stump around like a pirate.”

Richie sticks his showercap-clad foot out of the shower curtain. 

“Your bandage is getting wet,” Eddie says. “But that’s okay. We can reapply it after. Do you have any food here that isn’t rotten? I’m starving. Did they invent any new foods? Wow, it’s like thirty years in the future, huh.”

“Eddie,” Richie says and then, because he was about to be a dickhead, soap trickles into his eye. “Fuck!”

“What?” Eddie squawks. 

“Nothing. Soap in my eye,” Richie says. “Hey, get the fuck out. I’m a grown man.”

“Yeah, but you’re Richie. You’re not….you aren’t like a regular grown man,” Eddie says. His feet hit the floor anyways. “I’m going to go try to find some food.”

Richie lets the water run over his face like a girl in a movie who is about to get murdered. He hopes someone stabs him with a butcher knife. 

Nobody does. 

He puts his clothes back on because there are no clean towels in the bathroom and by then he feels exhausted. When he opens the door, he can hear Eddie rustling around the kitchen. All the lights are off in the house and he slaps the button on his wall that raises the black out curtains. He has no idea what time it is but golden light that spills in informs him it’s at least daytime. 

Eddie drops something in the kitchen (“Shit! Fuck!”) and Richie shuffles into his bedroom. The broken bottle allows a whiskey smell that covers the unwashed body smell a little but it’s conglomerate is a disgusting smell to encounter. 

He opens his curtains manually in here, squinting at the sunlight. He hasn’t been exposed to direct sunshine in weeks. The bright, golden light is miserable. 

The side of the bed next to the window has puke on it. Richie pulls the duvet over the puke stain and lays down. He folds his hands over his stomach and stares up at the ceiling. It’s white. It’s stark. It’s clean. 

Eddie is dead. 

Whatever is rattling around his kitchen is a hallucination or a trick or a ghost. It will leave him and he will be back to a reality without Eddie in it. 

The gaping maw of his grief will continue to swallow him, an inch a day, until he is gone and the pain can stop. Richie has sentient moments within the madness of loss, feelings of guilt at ignoring his friends and feelings of rage at how simple it is to take a life. He has moments where he clutches a pillow to his face and bites it to keep from sobbing, praying nobody else has ever had to feel like this before. Then, the sorrow leaks back in. And he drifts in a bath of room-temperature sadness so engulfing he can’t even imagine an end. 

“There’s no food here,” Eddie calls, moving down the hallway. “I found some orange packaged soup things but they have a fucking horrifying sodium content.”

“Every growing boy needs to try ramen once in their life,” Richie says, eyes dry from not blinking. 

“Did you put your filthy clothes back on? You’re hopeless,” Eddie says from the doorway. “Do you have clean laundry?”

Richie shrugs which is enough of an invitation for Eddie to start rummaging through his drawers. 

A clean pair of underwear are sling-shot across the room and they land on Richie’s face. 

“You’re a horrible, tiny boy,” Richie says from beneath the boxers. “And you have to eat the high-sodium ramen now.”

“Bullshit,” Eddie says, sounding almost cheerful. “We’re in LA? Are there lots of gay people here?”

“Wall-to-wall homos,” Richie says. He kind of likes the fabric over his face. It’s a buffer. 

“Shut the fuck up, you’re lying,” Eddie says, closer than Richie expected. He dumps more clothes on Richie’s head and then pinches the skin of his upper arm. “Get up. I’m starving. I feel like I haven’t eaten in months.”

Richie coughs a miserable laugh but he sits up. Eddie’s collected the only boring, normal clothes Richie owns. He found khakis somewhere and a blue polo. It’s hilarious. 

But it’s Eddie. 

So, he kicks Eddie out of the room and gets dressed in his least favorite clothes. The khakis are stiff from being dry-cleaned at some point and then never worn. The shirt smells old and musty. Richie feels old and musty. He pulls on his leather moto jacket for a split second on muscle memory. Then he remembers he was wearing it when Eddie died. He takes off the jacket. He finds an ancient Blink-182 hoodie and pulls that on instead. He skips socks and jams his feet into slip-on canvas shoes before he exits his bedroom. 

“We have to clean when we get back,” Eddie says, eyebrows furrowed. “I can’t eat in this place. It’s filthy.”

“We don’t have to clean,” Richie says, texting his cleaner. ( _ Very sorry, big mess, bring help. Will pay three times normal rate if you can clean it today.)  _ Eddie hangs off his arm to read his phone. 

“You have a housekeeper?” Eddie asks. “What is your job? Are you famous?”

“Kind of,” Richie sighs. The cleaner texts back confirming they’ll be over in thirty minutes. He writes the company a check and leaves it on the coffee table. “Alright, kiddo--”

“Do  _ not  _ call me that!”

“--we have to make ourselves sparse for a few hours. Are you going to freak out if we go walk around the future? We can go to--I don’t know. Do you want to go to Disneyland?”

“Disneyland?” Eddie repeats in a shitty voice. “No. I don’t want to go to Disneyland. I’m not a child.”

“You absolutely are,” Richie responds. “Look at your little child-sized shorts. You couldn’t hide an ant under those things. What the fuck?”

“These are my track shorts,” Eddie protests, pulling at the hem. “And anyways, they’re longer than your dick.”

“No dick jokes,” Richie says, shoving his hands at Eddie’s face. “No dick jokes when you look like a teeny-tiny angel.”

“I do not look like an--an angel,” Eddie hisses, smacking Richie’s hands. He’s blushing. “Shut up.”

“You do,” Richie says, accidentally honest. “Like a Little Kewpie doll. Like someone should just stick you on a shelf and dust you biweekly.”

“You have to dust things more ofte--Oh!” He howls, face red with anger now. “I’m going to wring your neck. I’m going to chop your head off.” 

“My Eddie love, you’re precious,” Richie says, shrugging. “Oh, Precious Moments. You look like those too. Hummel dolls. Dead ringer for Hummel dolls.”

“How do you know so much about baby figurines?” Eddie asks, crossing his arms. Then he wavers on his feet, leaning against the door frame. His face turns white and sweat prickles his forehead. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Richie asks, adrenaline and bitter acceptance mixing in his belly in a horrible way that leaves him standing in place with his heart in his throat. Here it comes. The Death of Spaghetti, part two. “What’s wrong?”

“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” Eddie says. 

He throws up. 

Then, the universe goes sideways and Eddie... _ shifts.  _ His legs, thin and coltish, swell a little with muscle and his hair shrivels back into his head a few inches and his jaw sharpens just barely. He shoots up three inches. His hands, clutching his head, square and grow. 

“Argh,” he says, dropping to his knees, head in hands. “Fuck.”

Richie drops with him, hands hovering uselessly. 

Then, Eddie cranes his neck and looks at Richie. He’s older. Years post-It now. 

“You’re reverse-Benjamin-Buttoning,” Richie says intelligently. 

“Who the fuck is Benjamin Button?” Eddie pants, eyebrows knitting together. 

“He’s this dude who was born as an old man and then turned into a kid,” Richie says, tilting his head to the side. “You’re doing the opposite of that.”

“So, just regularly aging?” Eddie asks, bitchily. His voice is deeper. 

“Fuck off,” Richie says. He reaches out, just once, and grabs Eddie’s shoulder before letting go. “How do you feel?”

“I’m so hungry,” Eddie says. His clothes are different now, he’s wearing a fucking cropped sweatshirt and blue jean shorts. “I could eat a whole turkey dinner by myself.”

“How old are you?” Richie asks, reaching down and hauling Eddie to his feet. Eddie stumbles a little, flushing when Richie releases his hands. 

“Nineteen,” Eddie says, pulling his shirt down. It doesn’t stay down. “I’m in my freshman year at Duke.”

“What the fuck,” Richie says. This is even worse than just having tiny-Eds wandering around. What if Eddie keeps aging? Is Richie going to have to see adult-Eddie die again? Are Bevvy and Ben going to arrive just to see Eddie croak again?

Richie never got to have college Eddie. He never got to know what happened after Eddie lost his babyfat cheeks and the innocent puppy eyes. This Eddie looks a little wicked, like the kind of guy who chugs whiskey and gets in a fist fight because he’s bored. He watches Eddie gag trying to clean up his puke, imagining a world where he got to help Eddie study at Duke. A world where he got to keep Eddie. 

They would be married. He’s sure. They’d be married and happy and they’d have a stupid dog named Tulip or something. He’s crying again. 

He’d wake up, holding Eddie, and all of those years of feeling like a dirty pervert  _ queer  _ wouldn’t matter because he’d have Eddie. He could make him breakfast and hug him whenever he wanted. He could kiss him in the grocery store. He could argue over hyphenating last names and wrestle for the remote and--

“Are you crying  _ again _ ?” Eddie asks. His own eyes are watery from gagging but he’s kind of sneering at Richie. It’s his I-am-uncomfortable-with-human-emotions-and-so-I-must-reject-them expression. Richie knows it well. Richie smears his face on his sleeve and stalks out the door. 

“Can I drive?” Eddie asks when they stop in front of Richie’s car. Richie had traded a baggie of coke for the keys to Michael Cera’s red Porsche Spyder at a party three years ago. “Please? Can I please drive? Richie?”

“What? Yeah, Jesus,” Richie says, tossing the keys over the roof of the car. Eddie slides over the hood like an action hero and he has the top down and the engine purring before Richie can even open the passenger door. Richie has an open text to the Losers’ group chat but he can’t figure out what to say. 

All thought is yanked from his head when Eddie peals out of the garage like a fucking crazy person. He weaves through traffic, instinctively finding the Pacific Highway. He was always a good guide, Richie thinks. He always could find his way around. 

“This is such a cherry ride,” Eddie yells over the rushing wind. He weaves through traffic, ignoring the cacophony of honks. “You’re, like, actually famous, huh? For comedy? What the fuck?”

“Slow down, you fucking maniac,” Richie yelps when Eddie screeches around a corner on the Pacific Highway. “They’re going to arrest us for public endangerment and you don’t have any ID.”

“Fine,” Eddie says, slowing to only twenty over the speed limit. “Are you famous for comedy?”

“Not for mine,” Richie says. He’s gripping the door handle tightly enough for it to hurt. “I have a ghostwriter.”

“What? That’s stupid,” Eddie says. He looks over at Richie, wind whipping through his curls. “Don’t be a prick about this—And I know you will be one anyways—but you’re the funniest person I know.” 

“Aw, Eds,” Richie says, close to a croon. “I knew it!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie screams, grinning over at Richie. 

Eddie looks like twinkie James Dean behind the wheel, white teeth and wild hair. Richie sends a picture of him to the group chat. 

Then, Eddie starts fiddling with the console, trying to make the radio come on. The car is attached to Richie’s Bluetooth so, of course, the last song Richie has been playing comes blaring through the radio. 

_ “—ddie, my love, I love you so _

_ How I’ve waited for you, you’ll never know—“ _

Richie almost throws his phone out of the car. 

He jabs the power button and the car descends into silence. The only sound is the rushing of wind over his ears. He refuses to look over at Eddie. He thinks he’s blushing. This really is hell. 

“God, you really are gay,” Eddie says and, when Richie looks over at him in outrage, Eddie is grinning at him. “At least listen to  _ Cutting Crew _ like I did. Hey, can that thing play anything?”

“You have a request, milord?” Richie asks, adopting a British butler’s voice as a shield. 

“Yeah!  _ Making Love Out of Nothing at All _ ,” Eddie says, illegally passing another car. “Do you remember it?”

“I do,” Richie says, exhaling through his nose. He finds it in his Spotify playlist. 

Eddie immediately starts bopping his head like he did when they were kids. He’s rattling his fingers on the steering wheel to the piano and bouncing in his seat. 

In a rush of fondness, Richie wonders if he’s been looking at this the wrong way. Maybe this is death. Maybe, instead of a real super cut of his miserable life, he’s getting flashes of what could have been. 

“-- _ I know just when to face the truth _

_ And then I know just when to dream _

_ And I know just where to touch you _

_ And I know just what to prove--” _

The sunshine streaming, the wind whipping Eddie’s hair into a frenzy, fucking  _ Air Supply _ . It’s an impossible dream. It’s a false memory. But he can pretend. He can imagine a universe where he followed Eddie to college and they drove along the highway with music blaring and Eddie’s scratchy voice singing loud enough that Richie can’t hear the wind. 

Eddie’s straining, leaning forward against the steering wheel trying to hit the high notes just like he used to. He darts a glimpse at Richie, a hint of something in his eyes, and Richie feels his willpower crumble. He drops his phone in the cup holder and turns sideways so he can scream right in teen-Eddie’s face. 

“‘Every time I see you all the rays of the sun are streaming through the waves in your hair’,” he yells, laughing despite himself. 

Eddie leans towards him, eyes flicking to the road and back to his face, and he yells back, “‘And every star in the sky is taking aim at your eyes like a spotlight!’” 

Together, they roll through the second chorus, out of breath and cackling. Life is frozen on this stretch of the Pacific Highway, crystallized and extending outwards farther than Richie can see. 

***

Richie takes Eddie to a nicer restaurant. Apparently, he’s still famous enough that they don’t enforce the dress code but the hostess does boggle at Eddie’s swathes of tan skin. 

“I wish I had thought to change,” Eddie says, pulling his cropped sweater down. “I’m going to go wash my hands. And comb my hair.”

“Alright,” Richie says. He’s pretty sure the lingering smell of whiskey is coming from his pores. 

“You really should wash your hands too,” Eddie says, hands on his narrow hips and Richie can’t help the easy smile that splits his face. He doesn’t think there’s anything he wouldn’t do for Eddie. 

“Yes, my dear Spaghetti,” he says and he follows Eddie to the posh restroom. It’s fancy enough that the mirrors have little chairs in front of them and baskets of neatly lined up cologne. 

Richie watches Eddie in the mirror as he fastidiously combs his curls into something resembling order. He’s lost the round, pudge of youth but kept his giant, hangdog eyes. Richie glazes eyes over the dip of his spine, visible beneath the sweatshirt. He really is tan all over. 

The tips of his hair are sun bleached, just barely, and he looks healthy and solid in a way younger Eddie never did. 

“You’re happy at Duke,” he says. Eddie meets his eyes in the mirror. “What changed?”

“I didn’t remember what happened with—with It. And my mom—she isn’t with me. So, I’m just—I am just me,” Eddie says. He leans a hip on the counter. “Just Eddie, the cross country runner and stats major. Not Eddie, germaphobe and clown warrior. I call my mom every Sunday and visit on all holidays but the rest of the time I have no one freaking out over me. I’m free.”

“You didn’t remember us,” Richie says and Eddie rolls his eyes. 

“I  _ thought _ I was free,” Eddie says. He tucks his comb away into his fanny pack. “I thought I was free. But I was just being controlled in a different way.” 

Back at the table, Eddie orders a crazy amount of food but the unflappable waiter doesn’t even blink. Richie orders a Bloody Mary and another bread basket.

They’re tucking into their first course when a hand lands on Richie’s shoulder. Eddie freezes cartoonishly, one cheek pouched with food and eyebrows so low they cover his upper eyelashes. 

“Rich,” a voice says. 

Richie doesn’t want to turn around. He knows the voice. Okay? The voice is known. 

“It’s, like, two pm and you’re getting a cocktail,” the voice continues. “What the hell are you thinking and why didn’t you call me to day-drink? What are you wearing?”

“Who are you?” Teen-Eddie asks rudely, swallowing speedily. “The fucking cocktail police?”

“Eds,” Richie says, helpless mirth bubbling in his voice. “Please.”

“Look, I don’t even care about your little Dawson's Creek roleplay,” the voice continues, taking a seat at the table. Richie keeps his eyes on Eddie’s purpling face. “Honestly, I’m so happy that you’re getting out there. Downgrades are inevitable after a certain caliber.” 

“Downgrades?” Eddie hisses. “Downgrades?”

“Eds,” Richie says again. “Just—“

“Just what?” The voice asks and Richie finally looks up at Eliot, his former FWB and current F. He’s smiling above his filmy, expensive scarf with his funny little crooked teeth and mop of blonde curls. He’s the opposite of Eddie in that he’s 6’5” and barrel chested. But he’s also got dark, expressive eyes and a bitter wit. So, draw from that what you will. “I’m not going to get into a cat fight with your twink of the month.” 

“What the hell is a twink?” Eddie asks hostiley, holding his fork like he’s going to stab El. “Like a baked good?”

“Eddie, meet El. El, meet the love of my life,” Richie says, smiling blithely. 

“You smell like a distillery. You look like the fucking corpse of a Gap model,” El says, ignoring Eddie. He leans in closer and draws a thumb over Richie’s under eye bag. “Are you wearing khakis? What happened to your eye? When’s the last time you ate a vegetable, Tozier?” 

“He’s eating one right now!” Eddie yells, gesturing brusquely to the celery stick in Richie’s glass. He turns on Richie and, in a slightly quieter voice, asks, “Who the hell is this?”

Eliot raises an eyebrow at Richie. Richie grins back, unable to suppress the warmth he feels for El. 

“El is my...friend,” Richie settles on and he pats El’s hand. 

“You’re fucking Gumby Barbie?” Eddie seethes, eyes darting between them. “Come on.”

“Gumby….Barbie,” Richie says, eyes widening with manic joy. 

“You deserve each other,” El sighs. He stands again, hands on his hips. His pants are excellently tailored. “Well. I just wanted to tell you that you’re getting papped and you look like a lonely pirate. Well, not too lonely. But, previously lonely. And your boy wonder here? He screams midlife crisis.”

“That’s honestly pretty accurate,” Richie says. He leans in conspiratorially. “I’m not even sure this is really happening.” 

El quirks the corner of his mouth and his eyes soften a little. 

“You’re a basket case, Rich,” he says. He puts his hand on Richie’s shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger. I want backstage tickets to your comeback show.”

“Anything you want. You can attend  _ any _ cum-back show you want,” Richie says and Eliot leaves with an eye roll. 

“You’re like...actually gay,” Eddie says, eyes wide. 

“Yep,” Richie says, chewing his straw. He takes an obnoxious slurp and Eddie shivers back into irritation. Richie takes a bite of his booze-soaked celery stick. 

“And you have boyfriends now?” He asks, sounding young. “It really could have been me.”

He’s pale again, sweating and pinch-faced. 

“We need to go,” Richie says. “You’re about to Benjamin Button.”

“It’s not Benjamin Button if I get older,” Eddie snaps, holding his toned, taught stomach and grimacing. 

Richie throws a pile of twenties on the table and escorts Eddie forcibly out of the restaurant. He finds the keys in Eddie’s stupid fanny pack and then they’re heading away from public eyes. Towards the ocean. 

“Barf out the window,” Richie says. He’s still holding his celery stick. And he’s very drunk. “Wow. I am so drunk. This is not safe. I’m going to get a DUI.”

Eddie pukes. 

“Better out than in,” Richie says distractedly, focusing on his driving with all of his attention span. “According the Shrek.”

“Who the fuck is Shrek?” Eddie asks in a hoarse, shrill voice. 

Richie looks over, horrified, to find little-Eddie back in the passenger seat. 

“You are Benjamin-Buttoning!” Richie yells, pulling over. “I fucking knew it! You’re going to turn into a gross, wrinkly Brad Pitt baby!”

“I am not!” Eddie screams. “You don’t know shit!”

“I know you’re ten years old again!”

“I! Am! Fourteen!” Eddie shrieks, face red and hands banging on the armrest between them. 

“You’re not even real,” Richie says. “I’m dreaming. And you’re going to turn into a baby and—and it’s all just an extended shitty metaphor that ends in me  _ miserable  _ and  _ alone  _ and  _ crazy.” _

“You’re alone because you’re a moron,” Eddie says, teeth gritted. “I was there! I was there the entire time!”

“You weren’t! You were in New York marrying your  _ mom  _ and I had no way to know what I was  _ missing  _ until it was too late,” Richie says and he hates that he’s choking up again. “And you died! And you’re dead and I’m still alone but now I know what I could have had before that stupid fucking clown fucked it all up. I don’t even know you are gay! Even if I did know you were alive I wouldn’t have—“

“Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up,” Eddie yells over him, smacking his hand over Richie’s mouth. He meets Richie’s eyes, brows a firm line across his face and teeth bared. “I would have been with you if I knew you existed, you mouth breather. I would have told you.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m gay,” Eddie says and he sits back abruptly. His face goes slack for a moment and then it crinkles up into one of fear. He draws his legs up to his chest in the bucket seat. Richie inhales and slumps in his own chair. Eddie looks at him, just a flit of a glance. “I’m gay.”

“Mazel tov,” Richie says and he takes a bite of his booze-soaked celery stalk. 

“Don’t be a dick. I’m gay,” Eddie says, sitting up straighter. His watery eyes are distracting. 

“Great. You’re also a ghost or a dream,” Richie says. His celery stick sucks. “So. I don’t know how much acknowledgement this requires.”

“Don’t be a  _ dick _ ,” Eddie says, neck flushed. “I think I’m real. And I’ve never said that before.”

Richie inhales through his nose. Ghost of Christmas Past. Okay. Moral lesson. He’s probably talking to his inner child or something. 

“Eddie,” he says, reaching out and taking Eddie’s hand. “I’m really glad that you know yourself. I love you and I’m sorry that growing up you had to hide yourself. I hope you can be your authentic self in the future.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Eddie says, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m going to jab that celery stick into your eyeball.”

“Oh, you’d love that,” Richie says and Eddie blushes. “A blush? A real life Kaspbrak blush?” Richie crows, leaning over and reaching for Eddie’s cheek. “Cute!”

“Don’t—fuck! Don’t touch me! No pinching!” Eddie yelps, smacking his hand. His eyes are still damp. 

“I have to,” Richie grins, stretching his arms over. “Cute-cute-cute!”

“Oh no,” Eddie says and then he’s barfing over the windowsill of the car again. 

When he turns back around, Duke-Eddie is back. Tan and handsome and so, so sad. His outfit is different. He’s wearing a pale yellow polo and crisp blue jeans. His hair is cropped and slicked back. 

“Jesus fuck,” Richie breathes and lets his head thunk on to the steering wheel. “What happened to you?”

“I met Myra,” Duke-Eddie says, plainly. 

“Great. Well. At least you can drive again.”

  
  


***

They drive to the beach. It’s not empty, but there’s few enough people that Richie doesn’t think he needs to worry about getting papped.

“I didn’t know,” Eddie says after they’ve walked for a moment. “That I was gay.”

“How?” Richie asks. He’s still drunk and he finished his celery. The sand is his enemy. 

“I don’t think…,” Eddie trails off, looking at the waves. “I don’t know how to say it without sounding like a fucking idiot.” 

“Well, that’s just my day-to-day,” Richie says, stumbling. Sad-Duke-Eddie is too depressing to find hot. Like, Richie always thinks Eddie is hot, but it’s different when he’s so visibly different from Happy-Duke-Eddie. “I make a living off sounding like a fucking idiot. Hey, if it’s stupid enough, I’ll put it in my set.” 

“Shut up,” Eddie says. He crosses his arms over his narrow body. “I don’t think I knew that you weren’t supposed to feel...dutiful with relationships.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” Richie asks flatly. He stops when he trips again and plops into the sand. “I’m not walking in this shit anymore. My knees are forty. I don’t know if that means anything to you, young Eds.” 

Eddie sits gingerly beside him, knees to chest. He looks out at the sea like there’s an answer there. 

“I have a duty to my mother,” Eddie says finally. “I owe her. I owe her phone calls and visits. She’s my mom and I love her. I feel the same duty to Myra. I owe her dates and kisses and shit.”

“Wow. Your life is depressing. And that’s coming from the dude who fell asleep cuddling a bottle of Jack Daniels last night,” Richie says, looking at Eddie’s face. 

“Fuck you,” Eddie snaps. “I know, fuck face.”

“We need to talk about the Benjamin Button Thing too,” Richie says. He is kind of sober now. He flops back in the sand. “What made you turn back into baby Eds?”

“I think….I think maybe it’s because I was thinking mean shit about that Eliot guy,” Eddie says. “Maybe it’s karma based.”

“Karma? Shut the fuck up,” Richie groans. The sunlight is hurting his eyes. “It’s not karma.”

“I was thinking about stabbing him with my fork,” Eddie says. Richie watches him grind his palms into his eyes. “I was thinking really hard about it.” 

“Aw,” Richie purrs. “My little psycho. But that doesn’t explain it. The last two times you grew  _ up _ you were mad at me. I’m sure you were thinking about stepping on my head or something.”

“It’s different with you,” Eddie says. “It’s different.” 

In a rare turn of events, Richie doesn’t know what to say to that. He closes his eyes against the blinding sunshine. 


	2. Chapter 2

To be honest, Richie kind of has Eddie convinced he isn’t real. Right up until a grown, weathered Bill flies through Richie’s door and into his arms. The snot soaking through his polo is too clammy to be anything but authentic. 

The past has taken on a shimmery, nebulous quality and Eddie is helpless against the turning tide. Separate timelines twist and undulate in the wind of his mind and he doesn’t know where to begin with straightening them out. He has a moment of ludicrous humor, holding a weeping Bill, where he wishes he could pull out his memories and iron them.

Eddie holds Bill, frowning intently at the salt and pepper crown of Bill’s head. He makes eye contact with Richie, eyebrows quirked in a plea for help. Richie is blank, wrinkled and creased like old laundry. He has purple blooms of bruise under his eyes and the complexion of a Kleenex. Richie wonders how much time he really spends in the sunshine. 

He sees the man, the forty year old, but he sees the boy and teen at the same time. Every version of Richie shifts and settles over the watery man staring at Eddie with wet eyes. 

“I need a drink,” Richie rasps. His voice is still rough with disuse. 

Eddie watches Richie root around in his cabinets until he finds a neat little collection of liquor bottles. He doesn’t bother with mixers, just glugs vodka into a plastic Six Flags bottle with an attached straw, then he creeps over the sofa and nurses the bottle. Bill has dried up a little and he’s peering at Eddie with naked fascination. 

“Oh, fuck,” Richie says suddenly, leaning up on one elbow. “Should we call your wife?”

“I married Myra?” Eddie asks in response from his place under Bill’s arm. “Like seriously? A woman?”

“That’s what I said,” Richie laughs. He laughs a little longer. When he’s done laughing and is thumbing tears from beneath his eyes, he sits up. “Jesus.”

“I think we should hold off,” Bill says, chin jerking up a little like it did when he was a kid. Always the leader, that Big Bill. “Until we know more. Why is he aging?”

“Or un-aging,” Richie interjects. 

“It’s a karma thing. The turtle. When I’m a dick I turn back into a kid,” Eddie says. He wiggles free from Bill. “It’s gotta be.”

“You have to be mature to be an adult again,” Bill says. “That’s a hell of a plot hook.”

“Its real life,” Eddie says, frustrated. “My life.” 

“So, how about we do my taxes and play some fucking shuffleboard,” Richie says. He takes an obnoxious draw from his straw. “That should get you in the ballpark of forty.” 

“Don’t be an ass,” Eddie snips. He hugs his arms around himself. Irrationally, he wants a hug. “When will Bevvy get here?”

“A few hours,” Bill says. 

Richie is flat on his back with the straw clenched into the corner of his mouth. Eddie can’t help but watch the soft pane of his belly move as he inhales and exhales and inhales and exhales and—

The sense of loss, of grief, for the life he could have had is sharp in his own stomach. Had Pennywise  _ not  _ stolen his memories, he might have had a life full of Richie. This might be his apartment, he thinks. He looks around at the huge windows on the wall and the posh furniture that’s completely incongruous with the man laying on it. 

Eddie isn’t sure what he does after college but it clearly involves Myra. And it doesn’t involve Richie. 

His relationship with Myra was a comfort in the same way the inhaler was. They both hide wounds from view, from the light of day. Myra hides the question of “Am I really sick?” and smoothes a bandage over the possibility that his mommy kept him sick on purpose. The inhaler supports the bandage, like tape, and secures it with the rationalization that if the inhaler was fake then it wouldn’t help.

But now, with his memories of life before he left Derry, he knows that it’s all fake. It’s all pretend. Mommy and Myra kept him sick. And soft. 

Eddie sits on the ground. Perhaps, more accurately, Eddie collapses on the ground. 

“Hey, hey,” Richie practically coos, scrambling across the floor to kneel before him. “Spaghetti man, are you okay?”

“I didn’t know,” he says. His throat burns. “I didn’t know the medicine was fake. And I just—I just did the same thing again. I married it.”

“We all made mistakes when we forgot,” Bill says, crouching beside them. His hand is firm on Eddie’s shoulder. “We are all making up for it now.”

“When you’re big again—When you’re you—then you can fix it all too, Eds,” Richie says. 

His breath reeks of stringent alcohol. His teeth have plaque between them, thick and yellow. Eddie still wants to kiss him. 

Eddie kisses him.

Bill’s hand flexes, most likely from surprise, and Richie freezes. It’s not a nice kiss. Eddie’s teeth press against Richie’s dry lips too hard and the smell of his breath is even worse up close. To their credit, neither Richie or Bill pull away. 

Eddie melts, dropping like a wilted daisy, against Richie’s chest. Bill plasters against his back and then Eddie realizes distantly that he’s crying a little. 

“When's the last time you brushed your teeth, you fucking animal?” Eddie says. He’s aiming for coarse and he lands somewhere small and sad. 

“Shut the fuck up, bro,” Richie says and Bill laughs against Eddie’s shoulder blades. 

***

They stay huddled for a long time. Then, Eddie shifts enough that Bill leans back. 

“My hips,” Bill groans. His knees pop in agreement as he stands. 

Richie keeps one hand clamped around Eddie’s arm as they stand and he doesn’t let go. Eddie blithely considers the option that he’s too drunk to stand on his own. Then, Richie curls a big hand into the cropped hair at the nape of Eddie’s neck and the look on his face is anything besides drunk. 

“Eds,” he says, eyes darting across Eddie’s face. “You grew.”

“Did I?” Eddie asks, fingers brushing over his cheek. “I didn’t throw up.”

“You didn’t do anything particularly nice,” Bill says, frowning at them with purpose. 

“I think that theory is bunk,” Richie says. He staggers back to the couch. “It’s something else.” 

“My mouth tastes like a raccoon’s asshole,” Eddie says, frowning. 

“That’s what you g-get for kissing Trashmouth,” Bill says. He has the expression of a man who knows he’s going to be shot but he shows up to the shoot-out anyways. 

“Woah, Big Bill! That was a good one,” Richie cheers around his straw. 

***

Eddie spends more time in the bathroom focused on staring at the new wrinkle that has formed between his eyebrows than brushing his teeth. It’s a ‘v’, seated directly above his brow line. He frowns experimentally around the tooth brush and the ‘v’ deepens. 

He has probably a decades’ worth of new memories now. Graduating. A black robe whispering against his slacks. A wedding. Myra in a stiff, frothy gown. The sensation of a bow-tie tucked under his chin. 

The fragments of his childhood collide with his reality. He thinks of laying in a hammock, knees pressed to Richie’s, thinking of a future where he gets to eat a platter of pancakes and eggs and bacon for breakfast everyday with Richie like in  _ The Waltons _ . He compares the daydreams to his silent breakfasts of grapefruit halves and black coffee with Myra. 

That stupid fucking clown. 

He realizes the froth trickling from his mouth is tinged pink. He spits, wincing at the splat of bright blood in Richie’s scrubbed-clean sink. 

His gums are tender now, sore and slightly swollen. He presses them with his tongue and watches his eyes water in the mirror. 

Then, he turns on the shower. The cleaning company has neatly folded towels on a rack above the toilet and, after some searching, he finds a grocery bag of hotel soaps under the sink. He pulls out the least scented ones and lines them up on the edge of the tub and then he undresses. 

He’s wearing more slacks and a new polo. He has a fancy watch on his wrist and his underwear are name brand.  _ Tom Ford _ , whoever that is. 

The shower head is flat and large and it’s spray makes a thunderous noise on the hollow fiberglass basin of the tub. Eddie turns on the fan for good measure and then he starts to cry. He forces himself into the tub, curling over his knees. 

He loved Richie. He loved him since before he had a word for the feeling. He loved him like a rock in the ocean, entombed and enclosed and buried beneath a million tons of pressure. He lost him. 

He grieves in the shower. He grieves a life with Richie but he also thinks, horribly, of Stan. 

He hasn’t let himself think about Stan. Now, he releases the dam. How angry he is as Stan. How a small part of him is envious that Stan got to choose his own departure. How he will never be able to wake up and not think of Stan. He mourns and mourns and mourns. 

The water is too hot but it grounds him, keeps him present. Soon, his skin feels like his gums and his knees have teeth marks where he kept himself from being loud. He washes his hair, then applies conditioner, then washes his body. As the water silks conditioner down his spine, he stares at a dimple in the ceiling. It looks like a thumb print. 

His throat burns and his stomach hurts but he’s clean now. 

He loves Richie. He will never forget again. 

***

Beverly is beautiful now. 

She’s willowy and soft and still so fierce. Where she was an alley cat in their youth, she’s a puma now. Her hair falls in these lovely waves of red over her shoulders and her shirt is a shiny blue material and he’s pretty sure her shoes have little clouds on the toe. 

Myra would hate her as much as his mother did. 

She doesn’t hug him. She rests her hands on his shoulders and searches his face with her eyes. The airport is loud and it smells sterile in a comforting way. 

“Eddie,” she breathes. Her breath smells like potato chips. “How old are you?”

“Twenty eight,” Eddie says. His palms are sweating. 

“Mike’s plane lands in twenty,” she says, releasing him. “I told him we would wait.”

“Of course,” Bill says. 

“Let’s go find sign supplies, Eds,” Richie says, reeling him in with a long arm. “We gotta make sure Mikey feels welcome.” 

“Wait,” Ben says, tall and handsome. “I want—or—could I?” And he’s holding his arms out for a hug. 

Eddie doesn’t like hugging. Or being touched. But he loves Ben. Loved Ben. Will always love Ben and the rest of the losers. He sinks into Ben’s arms like he’s coming home and it’s different from his hug with Richie in that there’s no anxiety or worry or concern that Ben doesn’t love him just as much and just the same. 

Ben’s safety, like Bill or Mike or Bev, and hugging him is like setting his head on his pillow at night. 

The Losers are all home but Richie is more, he’s a part of Eddie. 

Anyways. 

Eddie pulls back after way too long and his eyes are unfortunately damp. Ben’s are too. They laugh. 

“I missed you, Haystack,” Eddie says, wiping his tears delicately.

“Oh, Eddie,” Ben says, grinning. “I missed you more.” 

“Come on, Richie,” Eddie says, tugging Richie away by the sleeve. He’s tired of crying. 

They’re in some little stop’n’go and Richie is debating between a pack of sharpies and one large paint pen. Eddie’s holding a sheet of poster board.

“So you’re like really  _ real _ , huh?” Richie says quietly, so quietly Eddie can barely hear him. Richie is reading the tiny label on the paint pen with a forceful focus. 

“I guess so,” Eddie says. He pulls the pen from Richie. Richie switches his gaze to the sharpie pack. “Look at me, asshole.”

“God, you’re a bossy bitch,” Richie groans but he does. He’s wrinkly and semi-drunk and his eyes are bloodshot but he straightens up like Lurch and meets Eddie’s eyes. 

“I’m real. And I’m growing up. And when I stop at forty I’m going to kiss you for real,” Eddie says in a rush. The words slip from his mouth unbidden and he leans into the rush. “Then I’m going to get a fucking dog with you and a gym subscription in Hollywood like a douchebag and—Hey, can we get married?”

“You aren't allowed to propose to me when you are twenty eight and we are in an airport shop,” Richie says, face crumbling into tears. “You motherfucker.”

“Fine, I’ll redo it later,” Eddie says. He drops the paint pen and the poster board and then pulls the sharpies out of Richie’s pale fingers and he drops those too. He takes those pale fingers and presses them to his chest, to the ridges of his ribs over his heart. “I’m real. I have always been loved by you. I remember now. I’ll never forget.” 

“Fuck you, Eddie,” Richie chokes, crying for real now. “You’re such a little dickhead.” 

“Can I help you?” A voice asks them from the side. The shop girl is sneering at them, one hand on her hip. “You’re swearing and there are kids in here.”

“Airports are liminal spaces,” Richie says for some fucking reason and Eddie crouches to pick up their discarded items. 

“Get back behind your register and ring us up,” Eddie says firmly. “Then we’ll leave.”

“Fine,” Shop Girl says, curling her lip. 

“Fine,” Eddie snips back and he feels a flutter of warmth when Richie grabs a fistful of the back of his shirt as they walk to the cashier. 

***

“You grew again,” Richie murmurs into his ear, hand still fisted in the back of Eddie’s polo. 

“I’m thirty-two,” Eddie realizes. There’s a little shift in his memories as years of office-work slot into place. “I named my desk plant Richard and I never knew why.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Richie hisses in delight, leaning over his shoulder. “You did? What kind of plant?”

“A snake plant,” Eddie says. “My assistant has it on her desk now.”

***

They make a lovely sign with the help and input of the other Losers. Ben writes their sign in a neat, almost digital font and then they’re all clamoring for Mike as he comes off the boarding bridge. 

Their sign,  _ Mike Hanlon YOU ARE THE FATHER (x6) _ , earns them a fond eyeroll. 

“Mike is hot now too?” Eddie asks, chest burning with a blush. He waits for someone to pinch his arm and call him a sissy but Bill just wolf-whistles in agreement. 

“Which one of your sociopaths drew those freaky babies?” Mike calls, arms out for a hug. Ben is first, then Bill and then all of them. Eddie hesitates but then Bev is pulling him close and he shivers into the huddle. 

They must be a sight, a clump of pure love right in the middle of the airport. 

Pure love. 

***

“You guys really haven’t realized it yet?” Mike asks after they recount all the times Eddie grew, leaning forward on the sofa to peer up at Eddie. Eddie is pacing fiercely in tight circles. 

“Realized what?” Bill asks, turning in his own seat. 

“Eddie,” Mike says. “You’re Aurora.”

“Whom the fuck—,” Eddie starts but then he’s interrupted by Bill and Bev cackling like hyenas. 

“Snow White?” Ben asks, frowning at them. 

Bill and Bev kick into another wave of laughter. 

“Sleeping Beauty?” Ben asks, eyebrows crinkled. 

“No,” Richie says. “He’s Shrek.”

_ “Who is Shrek _ ?” Eddie yells with an air of desperation. He leans down to clamp his hands on Mike’s shoulders and shake him. “Who  _ is  _ he?”

“S-s-Stop,” Bill wheezes. He’s red in the face and slumped into Bev’s lap. “Please.”

“He’s Fiona more than he’s Shrek,” Mike says, eyes a little wide from being shaken. He reaches up and grasps Eddie’s forearms. “True love will break your curse.” 

“I’m going to skin you alive,” Eddie crows as Bev and Bill dissolve into soundless, breathless laughter. 

Eddie releases Mike abruptly and goes to hide in the kitchen. He gets himself a glass of water with shaking fingers, clatters the glass against the stainless steel basin loudly. 

He knows he’s in Epic Fairytale Love with Richie. He figured that out around fourteen, forgot it and then relearned it. He knows that as accurately as he knows what it means to need air to breathe. It’s inherent, settled in in cells and programmed in his DNA. 

He realizes he’s blushing furiously, hot-headed, watching his water glass overfill. 

He renters the living room to Beverly pointing a wordless finger at him. 

“What?” Eddie snaps. 

“You two kissed?” She asks, sharp like a cross-examining judge. Bev has always been in Richie’s camp. Also protective, always ready to defend. 

“Beverly,” Richie groans. 

“Yes, we fucking kissed,” Eddie says, flushing again. 

“And no magic jumbo-mumbo?” Bill asks sincerely. 

“Huh. This is definitely going to be the next Denbrough novel,” Richie says, laying his chin on his hand. “Can I name it?  _ Eddie’s Crop-Top. Eddie’s Pedestrian Endangerment. Eddie Does Dallas.” _

“Did Eddie wear a crop-top?” Bev asks and Eddie considers leaving again. 

“So, the kiss didn’t work,” Mike says, scratching his chin. He’s really way too handsome. 

“What about a love confession? Like Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks?” Ben asks, as sincerely as Bill. 

“I already told him,” Richie says. “In the car, after you turned little again.”

“You were being a dickhead then,” Eddie says. He crosses his arms around himself. He’s in a suit shirt and slacks and shiny oxfords. “You could try it again.”

“What? So, I just say I love you and you poof into a real Eddie again?” Richie laughs without mirth. “A pink, glitter cloud descends and you’re forty-one? What if you’re forty-one and dying from a stab wound? What if you’re a corpse? What  _ if  _ I tell you and then I wake up from the best dream I’ve had in years?”

“I’m real,” Eddie snaps. “I’m real and I deserve to be me.”

“It can’t be that easy, Eds,” Richie says. He looks rumpled, like a shirt that dried in a ball. “It can’t.”

“If the turtle sent Eddie here, it could be,” Bev says. “When I saw the turtle it was always so—so  _ good.  _ It loves us, Richie. If the turtle is involved, it’s going to be okay.” 

“Fine,” Richie says. He stands, vodka in hand, and shrugs. “Eddie Spaghetti, I love you. I love you so much I could eat you up.”

“Is it working?” Eddie asks, feeling his face. “I don’t remember anything new.” 

“Say it back,” Mike says, eyebrows folded. 

“I love you, too,” Eddie says, suddenly embarrassed. 

Richie’s face does a complicated thing where it flexes into a frown and then into a funny smile and then it flattens. His eyes are hidden behind a glare. 

“Cool. This was fun,” Richie says. His voice is hoarse. “I’m going to take a nap.”

“Rich,” Bev starts, reaching out a hand. 

Richie pushes gently past her and a half-moment later, the door closes. Eddie puts his face in his hands so no one can see him tear up. 

“Eddie,” Ben says softly, hands rubbing up and down Eddie’s arms. “It’s okay.”

“It’s really kind of not,” Eddie says, staring furiously at the ground through his fingers. “It’s fucking not.”

“Well—,”

“He’s such a prick,” Eddie interjects, moving away from Ben. “Like I’m the one trapped in my thirties. I’m the one staring down the barrel of another decade with someone I don’t love and the fucked up thing is that remembering how much I love Richie showed me I barely even  _ liked _ Myra.

I have been in stupid,  _ gay  _ love with Richie since seventh fucking grade. It’s pathetic! I used to think he was hot when he would— God. Do you remember when he used to just take a golf club and wack the shit out of trees until they fell down? I used to sit on a stump and watch him chop down trees with a golf club and think about how hot he was. It’s fucking idiotic.”

“Eddie,” Bill says. 

“And then—,” Eddie breaks off. He swallows against tears. “And then I grow up— _ lonely _ — and I find you all again. I find him again. And then I die? How is that fair?”

“It’s not fair,” Mike says. “It’s not.”

“And Stan? Stan dies before I even get to know him again? That’s just wrong,” Eddie tells the Losers with a tight voice. He’s running out of steam. “It’s wrong. I deserved to have you all. I deserved to love each of you. And it was just ruined.”

Something moves in the corner of his eye. Richie. Richie’s slunk out of his room to lean on a nearby wall. Eddie turns fully to him, extends his arms like he’s speaking to God. He kind of is. 

“And bottom line? I don’t quit. I’m not a quitter. And if I just have to love you like this—from the past or what the fuck ever—then that’s that. I’ll take what I can get. I’m not going anywhere. And you can’t fucking make me,” Eddie says. His hands are still out, palms up. 

The room is quiet. 

Then, Richie pushes off the wall, palming his own face. He surrenders into Eddie’s open arms.

Something unlatches in the back of Eddie’s mind, like a spring finally letting loose, and there’s a crystalline surge of electricity from his head to his toes. He pushes away from Richie just far enough to vomit only on his socked feet. 

“Holy shit, this sucks,” Richie yelps, laughing. “Right on my feet, Spaghetti?”

“Fuck you,” Eddie shoots back, grinning with his hands on his knees. He’s too happy to be sick. 

Richie cups his face, pulling him upright and is millimeters from kissing him when Eddie remembers the barf in his teeth and shoves him away. 

“Are you fucking crazy?” Eddie shrieks, holding Richie at bay. “I just ralphed all over. I’m rancid. There’s puke in my mouth—“

“Stop, you’re going to make me puke,” Richie protests, smiling and pulling Eddie close. “Puke twins, fSketti Eddy.” 

“You guys are disgusting,” Bev says and they turn back to the Losers. “You’re back, Eddie.”

“I’m back,” Eddie says, one arm slung across Richie’s back. “Do you think it will stick?”

“Your scar is back,” Richie says. “Healed over. Is your chest—?”

Eddie pulls up his polo, peering down at his chest. To the left of his sternum there is a pit, gnarled and knotted with scar tissue. 

“I think it’s going to stick,” Bill says. “It feels like it’s going to stick.”

“Eddie rides again,” Richie says, softer than he probably means to be. “Hallelujah.”

“Hallelujah,” Mike echoes. 

Ben comes first, hugging Eddie and Richie like it’s his job. Then Mike and Bill. Bev is last but then they’re back in their love clump. 

“Watch out for my puke,” Eddie yells, just to be loud, and Bev wiggles away from the clump. Her pocket dings. 

“Patty texted me,” she says, peering down at her phone. “Holy fuck.”

“What?” Mike asks, reaching out. “What is it?”

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Look I don’t know what this is either. Follow me on Twitter @lilspaghettiman if u want


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